• Logout
  • Beqanna

    COTY

    Assailant -- Year 226

    QOTY

    "But the dream, the echo, slips from him as quickly as he had found it and as consciousness comes to him (a slap and not the gentle waves of oceanic tides), it dissolves entirely. His muscles relax as the cold claims him again, as the numbness sets in, and when his grey eyes open, there’s nothing but the faint after burn of a dream often trod and never remembered." --Brigade, written by Laura


    Everyone I know goes away in the end, anyone
    #1
    “What have I become, my sweetest friend?
    Everyone I know goes away in the end."

    And as Beqanna was so prone to do, everything once again changed. Perhaps it was to be expected when you lived far too many lifetimes, that you would endure that much more than the average being. She can no longer keep track of the amount of times that the land had crumbled to dust, and then rebuilt from its ashes. Much like herself, where every time she was broken, she somehow became stronger. Strong. Now that was a word that she never expected to describe her. To go from the delicate porcelain-doll she had once been – once smooth and unmarred, and then to the ever-building spider-web of cracks that Dhumin started and everyone else had finished – to whatever she was now was something she had never imagined. She would not claim to be now unbreakable, nor has she hardened herself to the rest of the world in some attempt to save herself. She was just as vulnerable as she has always been, but now with the knowledge that nothing – not even death – was going to be the end of her.

    If ever there had been bitterness harbored in her heart it didn’t show. The edges of her lips always seemed to hold the ghost of a smile, and while there may be melancholy hidden in the shadows of her soul there was certainly no anger. She had every reason to be; she was riddled with scars, some that could be seen and some that remained internal. The black, jagged crack across the top of her head that for the most part remained hidden by her white forelock was a constant reminder of when her own daughter had turned on her – the first time that she had tasted death. The scarred sockets that had once held eyes sat like gaping, depthless holes, and she can hardly remember what it had been like to see, having been surrounded by darkness for so long.

    The scars across her heart were deeper and more confusing, and sometimes she can’t remember who left which ones. And yet that heart beats nonetheless, pulsing on its own just as easily as it always had, and often she does not notice the dull ache that sometimes fills her chest. The white mare steps into the meadow, the path so familiar beneath her feet that she does not even need eyes to know where it leads. So much of Beqanna has changed, yet there were small parts of it that remained the same. It takes her directly to the lone oak that she often stood beneath, and she can hear the way the naked branches click against each other. The air is incredibly cold, her skin drawing tightly over her slightly too-thin frame, ignoring the shiver that runs up her spine.

    A slender shoulder leans against the broad trunk of the tree, her delicate ears flicking back and forth as she catches bits and pieces of conversation. Rarely did she venture into the heart of the meadow anymore, but instead often stood here, simply listening. Most did not notice the ghostly white mare that stood alone on the hill.
    RYATAH
    you could have it all, my empire of dirt





    I apologize, it's semi-recycled.
    Reply
    #2

    Soft snowflakes trickle from the overcast blanket covering the meadow. Not that he would know if other lands were overcast as well, he hardly ever left the privacy of the field surrounded by a wall of pine. His hooves crush layers upon layers of snow beneath him, making that soft rubbery sound when snow rubs against itself.

    He is the perfect shade for winter, an unsaturated coat of deep greys and dappled white frost. Sometimes almost a blue hue shimmers in rays of sun, not that Beqanna has seen the sun in awhile. Not that he really cares to step out into the sun when it does.

    He meanders, as he usually does. Though today, he is out longer than normal. Today he has walked in visual reach for quite some time, and it all has to do with the female utilizing his lone oak for her own comfort and cover. While most stallions would see this as an opportunity, Dalten knows it as a curse.

    To say the least, women are not his favorite form of company. Lunatics, they all are.

    It’s getting dangerous now, walking in the shine of visible, exposing himself to the many faces of Beqanna. It has been so long since he has opened the door to temptation, opened the door to conversation. It only ever ends poorly. It only ever ends in voices enticing him to twisted kingdoms and manipulated users. Conversations never end with a simple goodbye. There is always a catch.

    The anxiety of it all suffocates him like an elephant squeezed into a box. The walls keep applying pressure, but the size of the box prohibiting him from leaving. Although he could continually round the meadow, feeling the box get tighter and tighter, he knows his mentality can only take so much.

    And damn it, he is at his limit.

    So against his better judgment, the one that tells him to find another ridiculous tree to seek cover and shade under, he slowly approaches the lone oak already inhabited by a mare. Her scent draws into his nostrils like the stench of a skunk. His nostrils curl and his jaw sets.

    What stemmed this nasty hatred towards women? Dalten is not entirely sure. Whether it be because his mother was never around, leaving him to fend himself. Or because he had his heart slightly ripped by a young mare not too long ago. Whatever the case, his judgment has slowly hardened into stone. It’ll take hours of chiseling to break down.

    She is a pearly shade of white, practically disappearing into the painted cream backdrop. She had a slender build, with spots of scars to show her journey. They all do, though. Everyone has found themselves tainted with bumps and cuts, and yet she still looks untouched and pristine.

    “May I?” He pauses, slightly distanced away as to not barge in (though he truly wishes he just would). It sometimes is took risky to ask permission, sometimes it is better to fight for command, or simply beg for forgiveness. Though he is neither a fighter nor begger, and so he will just wait and ask.

    DALTEN
    maybe there's a shark in the water
    Reply
    #3
    “What have I become, my sweetest friend?
    Everyone I know goes away in the end."

    There is the sound of footsteps, muffled by the snow, and she flicks in ear in that direction, her delicate head following suit. It is a knee-jerk reaction, to look, even though her empty sockets were useless, and had been for a very, very long time. She can feel him though, the reds and yellows of the heat in his body creating an image against the cold backdrop, an odd sort of imagery that gave her just a vague idea that it was a horse coming towards her, and the masculine scent that filtered through the air gave away his gender. Unlike him, the white mare relished company. In all her years - over a hundred of them - she had only spent the last several alone. She used to be in the thick of things, never without a warm body to press against, or a voice to listen to, or a kingdom to guide.

    She had become a loner, which was incredibly peculiar for her. It was by choice, but that didn't mean that her crumpled heart didn't skip a beat in delight at the idea of company. It was a stranger, as they all were by now. The porcelain-white lady cannot recall the last time she encountered anyone familiar. Every lover, friend, and enemy had long since disappeared, either into dust or into thin air.

    The sound of his voice brings a smile to her face, and even though there was something melancholy always lingering in the lines of her face there was still a warmth that radiated. "Of course you may,"she says, the once lilting sing-song of her voice sounding a little bit more worn, like it had either been spoken too many times or not enough. "I don't own the tree, as much as I may pretend to." There is a laugh hidden in her words, in the way it causes the syllables to roll from her tongue. She takes a step in his direction, and is about to reach forward, as it was often her way to greet everyone like they were an old friend, but something in the tension in his body causes her to stop. She shakes the forelock from her face, scattering it across the hollowed-out sockets as she drops her head, offering softly, "I'm Ryatah."
    RYATAH
    you could have it all, my empire of dirt
    Reply
    #4

    He is too engulfed in the scent of female and the instincts that follow suit. Not the typical instincts of a lead stallion, but rather the instincts that have grown with experience: stomach dropping, heart race quickening, judgment looming. Dalten, what appears to be strong and masculine, unbreakable and intellectual, is no stronger than the dying twigs clinging to what little life has to offer.

    As she turns her head to peer back, her forelock draping her face like a curtain of tangles, he realizes the overcast haze filling her eyes. It causes a slight release of tension in his back, as if her potential issue with sight saves him from the chaos that tends to follow suit with women. Part of him almost wishes he hadn’t said anything, for then she wouldn’t of even acknowledged his existence.

    Then again, from watching, it seems as though equine’s with defects tend to have other strengths in senses, and she very well would likely hear his entrance.

    Her voice is soft, and warm (like most women he has encountered). Though there is a distinct tone, either exhaustion from talking too much or out of practice from hardly talking at all. It is not hoarse, but it is not smooth. There is something different that he cannot find the word for, and it will be bugging him for minutes to come.

    “Thank you,” he brushes off her light hearted joke, assuming she is on to some sort of game and decides to not roll the dice. An assumption that would certainly provide a barrier at any chance of friends, or lovers. Dalten had long ago come to the conclusion he would rather be alone, than broken again. He had never done well with women to begin with, but over time had learned it best to just tolerate them as minimally as possible.

    “Do you not have a kingdom to live in?” He sounds judgmental, but only because his voice is quiet and hoarse from little use. Dalten would forever be cursed with a tone that was hard to read, and easy to assume with. Blame it on genetics; he was not born with a soft tone or friendly demeanor.


    DALTEN
    maybe there's a shark in the water


    Blah. Weak post. I promise the next will be better!
    Reply
    #5
    “What have I become, my sweetest friend?
    Everyone I know goes away in the end."


    If she notices his discomfort, she does not acknowledge it. Typically she assumes that any sort of disdain in her direction was her lack of eyes. A long time ago, long before the recent tribulations, her story never had to be told. The harrowing events that that had taken place between the Forsaken Valley and the Forbidden Dale had traveled upon the winds of Beqanna, causing every kingdom to grow tense with the worry that Carnage would be coming for them as well. Anyone that she met in the meadow greeted her with pity – she was the sorry soul that lost her eyes in exchange for her kingdom’s freedom. But so much time had passed since that day, (and while sometimes the event plays in her mind, the last thing she ever saw in this world being Carnage’s teeth lunging at her face, followed by the warmth of blood spilling down her face), that it seemed like another life, another world. In this lifetime, she had always been blind. In this lifetime, she was just another ghost hovering in the mist. In this lifetime, she was just another story, forgotten.
     
    But something in his rigid demeanor seems sorrowful, an emotion she knew all too well. In her experience, everyone was a little bit broken. Some pretended not to be, masking it with pride and anger. Ryatah had always worn her heart on her sleeve so to speak, but for the last several years she had been nothing but a shell. She simply existed. The heartbreaks of her past were so far away that it seemed futile to mourn them anymore. Lovers were gone. Friends were gone. Children were gone. Somehow she remained, and whether that was a gift or a punishment she hadn’t decided yet.
     
    He asks of kingdoms, and an almost wistful sigh whispers past her satin lips. ”Not for a long time,” and for a moment her voice trails off, her mind thinking back to a different time, a different place. She isn’t sure how old the stallion is, and she’s not even sure if she would know the names she spoke of. ”I lived in the Forsaken Valley when I first came here, a long time ago, and I was once a Queen of the Forbidden Dale. I have not called a kingdom home since.” Her delicate withers ripple in some sort of shrug, his question making her realize she didn’t even know what kingdoms existed anymore. ”And you? Do you call the common lands home?”
    RYATAH
    you could have it all, my empire of dirt



    No worries! I have limited opportunities to post, so whenever I do they're typically rushed :/
    Reply




    Users browsing this thread: 1 Guest(s)